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SAMUEL  OSBORNE 

JANITOR 


ifornij 

mal 

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A 


-D. 


SAMUEL    OSBORNE,    JANITOR 


SAMUEL  OSBORNE 

JANITOR 


BT 

FREDERICK  MORGAN  PA.DELPORD 


BOSTON 
PHILLIPS,  PUBLISHER 


COPYRIGHT,  1913 
BY  FREDERICK  M.  PADELFORD 


Sljp  Jari  ft.ll  frrw 

SAMUEL   USHER 
BOSTON,    MASSACHUSETTS 


TO  THE  CLASS  OF  '96,  COLBY  COLLEGE,  WHO. 

WITH  SO  MANY  OTHERS.  ENJOYED 

THE   FRIENDSHIP  OF  SAM, 

THIS  LITTLE  SKETCH 

IS  DEDICATED 


SRLF- 
URL 

5131678 


SAMUEL  OSBORNE 

JANITOR 

A  GROUP  of  men,  young,  middle- 
•**•  aged,  and  elderly,  crowding 
around  a  little  man  on  the  platform  of 
the  Maine  Central  Station  at  Water- 
ville.  Hearty  handshakes;  hearty 
claps  on  the  broad  shoulders  which 
bear  up  manfully  under  the  assault; 
hearty  laughter  from  the  besiegers, 
merry  falsetto  chuckles  and  ripples 
from  the  besieged  —  such  was  my  first 
glimpse  of  Samuel  Osborne,  Janitor. 
"  Samuel  Osborne,  Janitor,"  when  the 
dignity  of  the  college  was  at  stake,  — 
as  when  an  itinerant  organ  grinder  from 
sunny  Italy,  bribed  by  a  shower  of  un- 
dergraduate pennies,  with  organ  and 
monkey  invaded  the  quiet  precincts  of 
[i] 


the  campus  during  recitation  hours,  — 
otherwise  "  Sam." 

It  was  the  Commencement  season 
of  1891  to  which  I  have  alluded,  and 
the  alumni  were  just  getting  back. 
I  had  gone  up  to  Colby  to  spend  the 
week  with  my  brother  and  to  get  a 
little  foretaste  of  college  life  before 
matriculating.  When  the  crowd  had 
somewhat  dispersed,  I  was  taken  up 
and  introduced  to  Sam  as  a  prospec- 
tive student.  "  So  you's  goin'  to  be 
one  of  my  boys !  Well,  Mr.  Dehfohd, 
you  jes'  behave  yohself  as  well  as 
youeh  brudah  —  dat's  all  I  asks.  I'se 
got  a  very  fine  lot  of  young  genelmen 
heah,  but  I  guess  you'll  pass;  he!  he! 
Sorry  I  can't  talk  longah,  but  I'se 
got  a  lot  o'  my  old  boys  to  look  aftah 
dis  aftahnoon,"  and  he  hurried  away 
to  the  baggage  room,  his  energetic 
little  legs  struggling  vainly  to  keep 
up  with  his  more  energetic  little  head. 

Sam  was  as  black  as  his  own  polished 
boots,  as  why  should  he  not  have 
been,  for  never  a  drop  of  alien  mixture 

[2] 


had  tainted  the  pure  negro  blood  of  his 
forefathers.  His  bright  eyes,  like  the 
eyes  of  Chaucer's  frere, 

twinkled  in  his  head  aright 
As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  night, 

and  his  beard  was  worn  forked,  after 
the  manner  of  Chaucer's  own.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  dark  blue  uniform,  and  on 
his  coat  was  an  impressive  nickel  badge, 
which  shone  as  brightly  as  his  own 
ebon  skin,  and  which  bore  upon  it 
the  proud  inscription,  "  Janitor  of 
Colby  College." 

From  that  first  meeting  Sam  was  my 
personal  and  peculiar  friend,  as  per- 
sonally and  peculiarly  mine  as  if  he 
were  not  the  very  special  friend  of 
every  student  who  had  attended  the 
college  for  a  generation.  The  passing 
years  have  given  many  goodly  friends, 
friends  of  boyhood,  friends  of  college 
days  and  young  manhood,  friends  of 
riper  years,  but  in  the  temple  of  friend- 
ship the  memory  of  Samuel  Osborne 
has  it  own  particular  shrine.  To 

[3] 


think  of  Sam  to-day,  when  fifteen  years 
have  done  their  best  to  obliterate,  with 
their  multifarious  and  distracting  inter- 
ests, the  memories  and  friendships  of 
college  days,  is  to  quaff  deeply  and  long 
the  pure  wine  of  hope  and  optimism,  is 
to  brace  one's  self  afresh  for  the  strug- 
gle, with  the  conviction  that  life  is 
worth  while  and  worth  the  best  we  have 
to  give  it.  I  think  you  would  enjoy 
hearing  the  story  of  this  friend. 

The  history  of  Sam's  early  years  is 
full  of  interest,  for  it  illustrates  the 
vicissitudes  in  the  life  of  a  slave  lad, 
and  is  not  without  its  own  romantic 
episodes.  Sam  was  born  in  Lanesville, 
King  and  Queen  County,  Virginia, 
October  20,  1833,  on  the  plantation  of 
a  Dr.  William  Welford.  While  he  was 
still  very  young,  his  master  moved  to 
Fredericksburg,  taking  his  retinue  of 
slaves  with  him.  It  was  here  that  Sam 
spent  his  boyhood  and  youth.  His 
favorite  playmate  from  his  babyhood 
was  a  little  girl  two  years  his  junior, 
named  Maria  Iveson,  who  had  been 

[4] 


swapped  to  the  doctor  for  another  slave 
child  when  only  a  babe  in  arms.  As 
children,  they  played  together  around 
the  cabins  and  among  the  flowers,  and, 
being  children  of  more  than  usual  parts, 
were  made  much  of  by  both  master  and 
mistress.  Later,  the  comradeship  of 
childhood  ripened  naturally  into  the 
love  of  youth.  Sam  found  two  other 
warm  friends  in  Dr.  Welford's  sons, 
and  with  them  enjoyed  some  of  the 
sports  of  boyhood.  When  the  boys 
were  old  enough  to  be  sent  to  school, 
Sam  was  moved  with  the  desire  to  learn 
to  read  and  write,  and  in  pursuance  of 
this  end  bought  an  old  spelling  book, 
which  was  purchased  with  money  saved 
from  selling  rags.  Many  a  long  even- 
ing, after  the  other  slaves  had  gone  to 
bed,  Sam  pored  over  the  mysteries  of 
this  book,  stretched  out  before  the 
cabin  fire.  But  it  was  slow  work,  and 
before  he  had  made  much  progress  his 
efforts  to  gain  the  rudiments  of  an  edu- 
cation had  to  give  way  to  work. 

Sam  was  now  trained  to  be  a  cook, 

[5] 


and  that  he  gave  himself  to  his  work 
with  intelligence  and  conscientiousness 
is  testified  to  by  the  medal  which  he 
kept  through  life,  and  which  he  used 
proudly  to  display  to  us  college  boys. 
Several  times  he  was  hired  out  by  his 
master  to  some  boarding  school,  where 
he  was  brought  into  intimate  touch 
with  the  students,  and  he  thus  early 
came  to  understand  boys  at  school, 
and  the  lessons  that  he  then  learned 
stood  him  in  good  stead  in  his  later 
work,  for  if  there  was  anything,  actual 
or  potential,  about  boys  that  Sam  did 
not  know,  we  never  were  able  to  dis- 
cover it. 

It  was  during  his  life  at  Fredericks- 
burg  that  Sam  felt  most  strongly  the 
influence  of  the  noble  Christian  char- 
acter of  his  young  mistress.  She  or- 
ganized a  Sunday  school  among  the 
slave  children,  and  under  her  tutelage 
Sam,  while  still  in  his  teens,  began  the 
consistent  Christian  life  which  later 
years  only  served  to  deepen  and  expand. 
Mrs.  Welford  was  Sam's  ideal,  and  I 

16] 


never  knew  him  to  speak  of  her  without 
reverently  removing  his  hat.  It  was  a 
little  thing,  perhaps,  but  it  told  a  deal 
about  Mrs.  Welford —  and  a  deal  about 
Sam.  It  was  specified  in  her  will  that 
none  of  the  Osborne  family,  consisting 
of  three  brothers  and  a  sister,  should 
ever  be  sold,  and  that  Sam  should  have 
money  enough  to  secure  a  good  educa- 
tion. Of  course  the  war  frustrated  the 
kindly  intent  of  this  will. 

At  the  age  of  twenty,  Sam  moved 
with  his  master  to  Culpepper  County. 
Here  he  married  Maria,  his  childhood 
playmate. 

The  war  brought  many  changes  into 
Sam's  life.  His  mother  went  farther 
south  to  serve  Mrs.  Welford's  married 
daughter,  and  the  first  separation  of  the 
family  took  place.  Sam  did  not  hear 
of  her  again  until  the  year  1867,  when 
he  found  her  in  Washington,  shortly 
before  her  death.  His  master  now 
moved  to  Danville,  close  to  the  North 
Carolina  border.  Here  Sam  was  made 
overseer  of  the  new  plantation,  and  his 

[7] 


master's  papers  were  put  in  his  charge. 
But  Dr.  Welford  was  reduced  to  such 
straits  by  the  work  and  presence  of  the 
Union  army  that  he  found  it  impossible 
to  maintain  his  slaves,  and  Sam  was 
thus  thrown  upon  his  own  resources. 
Soon,  however,  he  obtained  employ- 
ment in  the  office  of  Colonel  Stephen 
Fletcher,  United  States  Provost  Mar- 
shal at  Danville.  Through  the  vaga- 
ries of  war,  Sam  and  Maria  now  found 
themselves,  the  one  the  servant  of  a 
Union  master  and  the  other  the  servant 
of  a  Southern  mistress,  in  the  same 
household.  Colonel  Fletcher  had  his 
office  in  the  house  of  a  Confederate 
colonel  named  Withers,  who  was  him- 
self in  the  northern  part  of  North 
Carolina,  driven  there  by  the  Union 
army.  But  Mrs.  Withers  was  allowed 
the  privilege  of  remaining  in  her  own 
home,  and  Maria  was  employed  to  care 
for  her  child. 

After  the  war,  in  May,  1865,  Colonel 
Fletcher,  who  had  conceived  a  great 
liking  for  his  servant,  brought  Sam  and 

[8] 


two  of  the  daughters  to  his  own  home 
in  Waterville.  Sam  at  once  found  em- 
ployment with  the  Maine  Central  Rail- 
road. In  the  following  October,  Maria, 
with  the  third  child,  joined  her  hus- 
band. The  circumstances  leading  to 
her  arrival  furnish  a  picturesque  illus- 
tration of  the  peculiar  sentiment  of  the 
time.  It  seems  that  the  Maine  State 
Sunday  School  Convention  was  to  be 
held  in  Waterville,  and,  to  add  to  the 
interest  of  the  occasion,  Sam,  who  was 
something  of  a  novelty,  inasmuch  as 
very  few  negroes  had  found  their  way 
into  the  state,  was  asked  to  sing  a  solo. 
To  get  the  maximum  of  effect,  Sam  was 
wrapped  in  an  American  flag  and 
placed  upon  the  platform.  The  en- 
thusiasm and  emotion  of  the  audience 
was  so  aroused  by  this  episode  that, 
after  the  solo,  a  contribution  was  taken 
to  defray  the  expense  of  bringing  Mrs. 
Osborne  to  Waterville.  As  the  valid- 
ity of  the  marriage  was  questioned,  Sam 
and  Maria  were  "  re-united,"  as  Sam 
was  wont  to  put  it,  in  the  presence  of 

[9] 


Professor  and  Mrs.  Hamlin  and  other 
prominent  citizens.  Sam's  thrift  and 
filial  loyalty  are  shown  by  the  fact  that 
within  a  year  after  his  coming  north 
he  had  saved  enough  money  to  bring 
his  father  to  Waterville.  For  a  year 
his  father  served  as  janitor  of  the  col- 
lege, but  upon  his  death  in  1867  Sam 
was  appointed  to  fill  the  vacancy. 

Placed  in  this  new  environment, 
Sam  transferred  to  the  college  that 
loyalty  which  the  negroes  of  ante- 
bellum days  had  felt  for  the  master  and 
the  plantation.  It  was  an  affection 
and  a  devotion  as  instinctive  as  it  was 
deep.  From  the  first,  Sam's  strong 
qualities  won  him  the  confidence  of 
both  faculty  and  students,  but  as  time 
went  on,  with  its  inevitable  changes  in 
the  faculty  of  the  college  and  in  its 
fortunes,  he  came  more  and  more  to  be 
regarded  not  only  as  a  bright,  reliable, 
hard-working  servant,  but  as  a  man 
whose  life  was  peculiarly  inwrought 
with  the  destinies  of  the  college.  It 
was  this  Sam  of  later  years  that  I 

[10] 


knew,  a  man  to  whose  unique  and 
many-sided  personality  it  is  very  diffi- 
cult for  a  writer  to  do  justice.  I  can 
only  hope  to  touch  upon  certain  of  its 
more  picturesque  aspects. 

Despite  Sam's  early  ambition  to 
become  educated,  he  could  neither  read 
nor  write.  No  —  that  statement  is 
unjust  and  inaccurate.  Sam  could 
both  read  and  write,  and  I  herewith 
submit  the  evidence.  Among  his  many 
duties  was  that  of  postman,  and  the 
outgoing  mail,  which  he  collected  each 
morning  from  the  students  as  they  hur- 
ried to  chapel,  or  gathered  from  the 
boxes  in  the  afternoon,  was  mailed  on 
the  trains  at  the  station  opposite  the 
campus.  Sam  had  learned  by  pure 
observation  the  appearance  of  the 
names  of  most  of  the  leading  cities  or 
towns,  and  could  thus  sort  the  mail 
which  was  going  to  Portland,  Augusta, 
or  beyond  the  borders  of  the  state, 
from  that  which  was  going  to  Bangor 
and  points  to  the  east.  The  question- 
able addresses  were  submitted  to  some 


student  whom  Sam  knew  especially 
well,  or,  if  no  such  student  were  at 
hand,  to  the  mail  clerks  themselves. 
One  morning  I  was  enjoying  the  luxury 
of  a  "  cut "  from  chapel  and  was 
seated  on  the  dormitory  steps,  musing 
on  the  vanity  of  human  institutions, 
when  Sam  came  by  with  his  bag  of 
mail.  "  Ah,  Mr.  Dehfohd,  very  sorry 
to  see  you'se  not  attendin'  chapel  dis 
mornin',  you  needs  it,  Mr.  Dehfohd, 
but  so  long  as  you  isn't  in  chapel,  I 
wondah  if  you  would  jes'  kinely  cast 
youeh  eye  ovah  a  few  of  dese  addresses. 
I  declah  foh  it,  it  do  seem  to  me  dat 
my  young  men  writes  wussah  and  wus- 
sah  every  yeah.  Dey  writes  so  much 
Latin  and  Greek,  dat  I  reckon  deyjes' 
nachully  forgets  how  to  write  deah 
native  tongue.  I  guess  we'll  have  to 
put  penmanship  into  de  cooriculum  of 
dis  college.  Why,  I'se  quite  ashamed 
of  my  young  men,  I  is."  And  he  hur- 
ried away  to  the  depot,  with  the 
troublesome  letters  in  the  right  pockets 
of  his  bag,  chuckling  merrily  to  himself. 

[12] 


Though  it  was  of  course  generally 
known  that  Sam's  knowledge  of  read- 
ing and  writing  was  thus  limited,  he 
pretended  to  be  able  to  read  the  news- 
papers and  would  often  drop  into  the 
reading  room  in  the  basement  of  Old 
South  of  an  evening  and  glance  over 
the  pages  of  the  Boston  Journal,  — 
which  paper  he  chose  through  pro- 
nounced political  convictions,  —  ap- 
parently absorbed  in  its  contents.  The 
next  morning  he  would  animatedly 
discuss  the  issues  of  the  day  with  a 
group  of  students  gathered  on  the 
steps,  having  in  the  meantime  heard 
the  news  read  by  his  children  at  home. 
Such  was  the  affection  felt  for  Sam, 
that  no  one  of  us  would  have  wounded 
his  feelings  by  twitting  him  with  this 
little  foible,  and,  moreover,  we  were 
forced  to  respect  ,his  appreciative 
knowledge  of  the  events  of  the  day. 

Sam  could  also  write,  for  his  children 
had  taught  him  to  write  his  name,  at 
least  to  write  what  passed  for  his  name, 
and  this  scrawl  was  proudly  signed  to 

[13] 


college  bills  or  written  across  the  face 
of  his  photograph. 

But  the  most  remarkable  of  Sam's 
intellectual  achievements  was  his  trans- 
lation of  the  more  difficult  passages  in 
the  "Funeral  Oration  of  Pericles." 
This  was  assigned  us  by  Professor 
Foster  in  the  spring  of  our  freshman 
year,  not  through  any  delusion  on  his 
part  that  we  —  and  by  "  we  "  I  mean 
the  class  at  large,  not  the  uncomfort- 
able genius  who  is  to  be  found  in  every 
class  to  disturb  the  peace  of  mind  and 
the  contentment  of  the  great  majority — 
not  through  any  delusion,  I  say,  that 
we  could  handle  it,  but  merely  to  let 
us  see  that  the  time  was  hardly  ripe 
for  us  to  drop  the  subject,  though 
most  of  us  took  it  as  evidence  that  the 
time  for  the  severance  of  this  man- 
imposed  companionship  was  fully  ripe. 
Long  before  my  freshman  days,  Sam, 
hearing  the  general  complaint  of  this 
purgatorial  plunge,  had  learned  by 
heart,  from  some  waggish  tutor,  —  of 
blessed  memory,  —  a  literal  translation 

[Ml 


of  several  pages  of  the  more  difficult 
Greek.  When  May  and  Thucydides 
grappled  for  our  souls  —  as  angels  and 
demons  may  be  seen  in  some  quaint 
canvas  by  a  Fra  Angelico  tugging  lustily 
by  head  and  heel  at  some  quivering, 
pendant  sinner  —  Sam  would  begin  to 
throw  out  hints  of  help  that  might  be 
proffered:  "I  doan  usually  believe  in 
helpin'  you  young  genelmen,  but  I  allus 
feels  dat  I  ought  to  give  my  freshmen 
jes'  a  little  lif  when  it  comes  to  dat 
'  Fuhnyal  Oration  of  Pehicles.'  "  And 
then  the  passage  would  be  read,  with 
appropriate  gesture  and  true  Demos- 
thenic fervor,  to  a  crowd  of  eager  boys, 
armed  with  pencil  and  tablet. 

Sam  had  an  unusually  good  memory, 
all  the  better  probably  because  he  was 
forced  to  rely  upon  it  so  largely.  I 
have  heard  an  ex-President  observe 
that  it  was  his  custom  to  call  Sam  into 
his  office  and  give  him  a  list  of  errands 
to  do,  and  that  Sam  would  invariably 
attend  to  them  in  the  order  enumerated, 
without  forgetting  a  detail.  Sam's 

[15] 


memory  was  equally  impeccable  when 
put  to  the  test  of  time.  He  never 
forgot  the  name  of  an  alumnus,  and  he 
remembered  even  the  trivial  details  of 
a  man's  college  career.  I  once  asked 
him  about  the  record  of  a  man  who  had 
attended  college  for  a  short  time  some 
fifteen  years  before  my  own  day.  With- 
out a  moment's  hesitation  Sam  told  me 
where  the  man  roomed,  who  were  his 
friends,  and  then,  on  the  pledge  of 
secrecy,  the  prank  that  had  caused  his 
dismissal. 

Coupled  with  his  memory  was  a  very 
keen  and  minute  power  of  observation, 
which  nothing  seemed  to  escape.  One 
wintry  evening  as  Sam  was  lighting  the 
lamps  which  hung  in  the  corridor  op- 
posite my  door,  he  heard  some  one 
descending  the  darkened  staircase 
above.  With  a  merry  chuckle  he 
shouted,  "  I  hasn't  heard  dat  step  roun' 
here  for  a  long  time.  Seems  like  ole 
days;  nobody  else  roun'  here  ever  come 
down  stairs  jes'  like  dat,"  and  from  the 
darkness  emerged  a  fellow  who  had  not 

[16] 


been  back  to  the  college  since  his  gradu- 
ation nine  years  before. 

Sam's  quickness  of  wit  and  ready 
power  of  repartee  were  an  unending 
source  of  amusement  to  both  students 
and  faculty.  It  was  worth  defeat  to 
see  Sam  momentarily  studying  over 
some  challenge  of  wit  and  then  to  see 
him  double  up  and  hug  his  stomach 
with  glee,  only  to  undouble  as  abruptly 
and  throw  his  head  far  back  and  to  one 
side,  with  roguish  eyes  a-rolling,  as  he 
discharged  the  retort.  It  was  Sam's 
annual  custom  to  burn  over  the  campus, 
in  order  to  give  the  fresh  grass  a  start. 
One  morning  as  Sam  was  thus  engaged, 
a  very  fresh  freshman  sauntered  along 
the  walk,  pipe  in  mouth,  stood  and 
watched  Sam  a  moment,  and  then  re- 
marked, "  Well,  Sam,  that's  almost  as 
black  and  fuzzy  as  your  hair."  With 
scarcely  a  moment's  hesitation  came 
the  rejoinder,  "  Dat's  true,  Johnnie; 
'spect  it'll  come  up  fresh  in  a  few 
days,  but  it  won't  be  half  so  green  as 
you  is."  The  joke  was  overheard  by  a 

[17] 


sophomore  —  and  it  was  the  making 
of  Johnnie. 

One  evening  after  a  somewhat  heated 
religious  discussion,  in  which  some 
arrant  rascals  had  been  putting  Sam's 
faith  to  the  test,  one  of  them  asked, 
"  But,  Sam,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
up  in  Heaven?  "  "  Go  on  takin*  care 
of  de  Colby  boys."  "  But  suppose  you 
don't  get  there?"  "  Oh,  —  go  right 
on  takin'  care  of  'em  jes'  de  same." 

Ex-President  Pepper  enjoyed  telling 
the  reply  which  Sam  made  to  one  of  his 
sallies.  Several  years  after  Dr.  Pepper 
had  retired,  he  was  back  at  Commence- 
ment, and,  observing  Sam  bustling 
about,  remarked,  "  Sam,  you  seem  to 
be  rushing  around  a  good  deal;  I  don't 
believe  you're  half  so  busy  as  you 
pretend  to  be."  Sam  was  too  busy  to 
argue  the  point,  but  as  he  hurried  on 
he  shot  back  the  retort:  "  Dat's  all 
very  true,  Doctah  Peppah,  but  I  learned 
dat  lesson  from  you,  when  you  was 
President." 

Like  most  of  his  race,  Sam  magnified 

[18] 


his  office,  and  this  exalted  conception 
of  his  official  self  was  to  him  an  unfail- 
ing source  of  satisfaction  and  inspira- 
tion. It  cast  the  golden  glow  of  poetry 
over  the  drudgery  of  daily  life;  it  ir- 
radiated the  commonplace  with  its 
own  bright,  enduring  colors.  It  hov- 
ered between  the  sublime  and  the 
ridiculous,  but  though  it  sometimes 
actually  entered  into  the  realm  of  the 
sublime,  it  seldom  was  allowed  to  ap- 
pear really  absurd.  The  fact  was  that 
Sam  was  extremely  sensitive  to  other 
people's  impressions,  and  he  was  not 
often  betrayed  into  exposing  the  dear 
idol  of  his  imagination  to  their  ridicule. 
He  knew  deep  in  his  heart  that  it 
would  not  stand  the  severe  light  of 
cold  reason,  and  he  revered  it  too  much 
to  expose  it  to  a  test  too  searching. 
But  when  the  good  name  of  the  college 
was  brought  in  question,  when  some  act 
of  meanness  aroused  his  indignation, 
or  when  some  momentous  event  in  the 
life  of  the  college  invited  men  to  dis- 
close the  deeper  feelings  of  the  heart, 


then  Sam  was  transformed  into  his 
ideal  self,  and,  clad  in  the  shining  gar- 
ment of  his  own  majestic  vision,  thun- 
dered forth  the  crescendo  volume  of  his 
eloquence. 

No  one  who  had  the  good  fortune  to 
attend  prayer  meeting  that  particular 
Sunday  evening  will  be  likely  to  forget 
Sam's  farewell  remarks  on  the  occasion 
of  the  leave-taking  of  one  of  his 
favorite  presidents.  It  was  a  kind  of 
glorification  of  the  college  and  of  its 
successive  presidents,  and  a  lamenta- 
tion for  the  transitoriness  of  all  things 
temporal.  Chapter  after  chapter  the 
history  of  thirty  years  of  the  college 
was  reviewed,  each  chapter  culminat- 
ing in  eloquent  regret  for  the  departure 
of  a  president.  With  head  thrown  far 
back  and  eyes  half  closed,  Sam  sur- 
rendered himself  to  the  mood,  and, 
breaking  through  the  cooling  restraint 
of  three  decades  of  New  England 
prayer  meetings  in  a  college  church, 
chanted  his  impassioned,  cadential  lay 
as  his  ancestors  had  chanted  before 

[20] 


him.  In  this  changing  panorama  of 
college  life,  Sam  figured  as  the  one 
fixed  quantity,  and  the  cumulative  re- 
frain resolved  itself  into  the  reflection 
that  "  President  Champlin,  he  come 
and  go,  but  Sam  stay  on;  an'  den 
President  Robbins,  he  come  and  go,  but 
Sam  stay  on;  an'  den  President  Pep- 
pah,  he  come  and  go,  but  Sam  stay  on; 
an'  den  President  Small,  he  come  and 
go,  but  Sam  stay  on;  an'  den  President 
Whitman,  he  come  and  go,  but  Sam 
stay  on;  an'  now  President  Butlah, 
he's  gwine  to  go,  but  ole  Sam'll  still 
stay  on!  "  Sam  stood  out  in  superb 
relief  as  the  living  center,  the  one  stable 
factor,  in  the  ever-changing  vicissitudes 
of  the  college.  He  was  the  one  rock  of 
defense  against  which  the  waves  of  the 
passing  years  beat  themselves  in  vain. 
It  was  perhaps  amusing,  but  it  was 
curiously  pathetic,  and,  in  its  way, 
beautiful.  It  was  the  revelation  of  the 
controlling  ideal  of  a  good  life,  a 
glimpse  into  a  sanctuary,  and  he 
would  indeed  have  been  unfeeling  who 

[21] 


could  have  looked  into  that  sanctuary 
with  contempt. 

There  was  no  time,  however,  when 
Sam  opened  his  heart  more  feelingly 
to  his  friends  than  on  the  occasion  of 
his  annual  farewell  address  to  the 
graduating  class.  Like  all  good  col- 
lege customs,  this  sprang  up  as  it  were 
by  accident.  It  was  a  time-honored 
custom  at  Colby,  as  at  other  New  Eng- 
land colleges,  to  have  the  last  chapel 
exercises  of  the  seniors  conducted  by 
the  class  chaplain,  with  appropriate 
ceremony.  Now  it  chanced  that  the 
class  of  1896  was  one  to  which  Sam 
felt  particularly  close,  and  on  the  oc- 
casion of  its  last  chapel  exercise  the 
old  janitor  was  so  much  affected  that, 
as  soon  as  the  exercises  were  concluded, 
he  ran  up  to  the  class  president,  and 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  meet  the  class 
alone  for  a  few  moments.  Word  was 
hastily  passed  around  that  Sam  had 
something  to  say  to  us,  and  we  reas- 
sembled in  the  chapel.  Sam  stepped 
to  the  platform  and  began:  "I  hope 

[22] 


you  young  genelmen  and  ladies  won't 
tink  dat  youeh  ole  janitah  doan  know 
his  place,  but  I  jes'  cain't  beah  to  have 
you  go  'til  I  has  tole  you  how  good  you 
all's  been  to  youeh  ole  Sam  and  how 
much  youeh  ole  Sam  loves  you.  I  sat 
and  watched  de  sun  go  down  las' 
night,  and  I  says  to  myself, '  Sam,  dat's 
jes'  de  way  you'se  losin'  yoh  boys  and 
girls,'  an'  do'  when  I  got  up  dis  mawnin' 
dere  was  anodeh  nice,  new,  bright  day, 
it  wan  de  same  day,  and  when  you  gets 
as  ole  as  I  is,  you'll  fine  it  a  little 
hahdeh  every  time  to  say  good-by, 
and  you'll  fine  dat  de  new  friens  doan 
jes'  make  up  for  de  ole  ones."  And 
then  Sam  launched  into  retrospect, 
recalled  many  instances  of  our  four 
years'  history,  some  that  made  us 
smile  and  some  that  made  us  look  down 
to  lose  Sam's  eye  for  a  moment,  and 
then  told  us  how  he  expected  us  to  be 
loyal  alumni,  and  always  to  stand  by 
the  college,  and  finally  exhorted  us  to 
be  good  men  and  women,  remembering 
that  character  was  what  the  college 

[23] 


had  tried  to  give  us,  and  was  the  one 
thing  worth  while  after  all.  It  was  the 
best  talk  that  we  had  heard  during  our 
college  days,  and  when  it  was  over  we 
gathered  around  Sam,  as  children  might 
gather  around  a  revered  parent,  and 
said  what  our  feelings  would  allow  us 
to  say. 

So  much  was  this  "  farewell  address  " 
discussed  about  the  college  that  the 
class  of  the  following  year  took  the 
initiative  and  invited  Sam  to  address 
them,  and  thus  the  custom  became 
established. 

Among  Sam's  other  attributes  was 
the  gift  of  divination.  He  was  the 
primitive  man,  a  part  of  nature's  self, 
and  he  looked  upon  the  truth  un- 
blinded,  undimmed  by  the  veil  of 
knowledge  formalized.  In  this  respect 
he  was  absolutely  uncanny,  a  person 
to  be  discussed  and  analyzed  in  remote 
rooms  or  upon  quiet  walks.  Sam  never 
talked  about  these  supernatural  pow- 
ers, and  so  far  as  I  know  the  Society 
for  Psychical  Research  never  had  him 

[24] 


under  inspection,  but  he  had  these 
powers,  abnormally,  unhumanly  de- 
veloped —  not  only  had  them,  but 
used  them,  nightly.  It  was  not  fair, 
it  gave  the  college  authorities  an  im- 
possible handicap,  but  facts  are  facts, 
and  must  be  faced  bravely,  resignedly. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human 
breast  —  especially  when  that  breast 
is  in  college,  and  nights  are  dark  and 
the  pulse  beats  high  —  but  at  Colby  it 
sprang  in  vain.  Sam  had  but  to  cast 
one  searching,  secret-revealing  glance 
at  the  luminaries  of  the  college  heaven, 
and  there  was  nothing  that  would  fain 
be  hid  that  was  not  revealed, — revealed 
not  merely  in  broad  outline,  but  in 
tiniest  detail,  —  threatening  disorders 
forecast  to  the  very  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Was  molasses  spread  upon  the  fresh- 
man pews  in  chapel,  in  order  that  the 
children  might  not  wriggle  in  their 
restive  seats?  It  was  all  carefully  re- 
moved before  the  first  stirrings  of  the 
college  day,  and  Sam  was  performing 
his  routine  duties  in  quietness  and  the 

[25] 


fear  of  the  Lord,  with  only  a  sly  glance 
from  the  tail  of  his  eye  when  a  sopho- 
more chanced  to  pass.  Was  the  read- 
ing room  half  filled  with  fresh  new  hay 
at  Commencement  time,  that  my  guest 
might  take  his  ease  while  taking  his 
news?  My  guest  took  his  news  the 
next  morning  under  the  customary 
conditions  of  Spartan  severity. 

Only  once  did  the  vision  fail  Sam, 
and  even  then  not  for  long.  One  morn- 
ing in  the  spring  of  '95,  when  the  stu- 
dents assembled  for  chapel,  they  were 
surprised  to  see  the  President  seated 
behind  a  little  table,  instead  of  behind 
the  old  pulpit  that  had  done  duty  for 
so  many  college  generations.  Of  course 
the  news  quickly  spread  that  the  pulpit 
had  disappeared  during  the  night.  After 
the  first  excitement  no  one  took  the 
matter  very  seriously,  for  we  all  ex- 
pected that  our  vigilant  Sam  would 
quickly  trace  it  to  its  hiding  place  and 
restore  it  to  the  time-honored  station  in 
the  chapel.  In  this  view  Sam  himself 
probably  shared.  But  as  days  went 

[26] 


by  and  no  real  clue  was  found,  the 
strain  became  too  much  for  Sam,  and 
he  went  to  some  of  the  boys  who  he 
thought  might  know  the  whereabouts 
of  the  relic,  confessed  that  he  was  com- 
pletely baffled,  and  cried  like  a  child,  or 
shall  I  say  cried  like  a  man,  indignant 
tears,  tears  of  humiliation.  It  was  too 
much  for  the  boys,  and  though  they 
made  no  confession,  a  handsome  new 
pulpit  and  a  new  chair  for  the  President 
shortly  appeared  on  the  rostrum.  Sam 
was  comforted  and  he  forgave  —  but 
he  did  not  forget.  A  year  later,  in  the 
following  spring,  we  were  all  surprised 
one  morning  to  see  the  old  pulpit  once 
more  in  its  accustomed  place,  with  the 
new  one  beside  it.  It  was  found  to 
have  been  deposited  on  the  shore  of  the 
Kennebec  above  Augusta.  Sam,  who 
had  suspected  that  it  might  have  been 
thrown  into  the  river,  had  taken  the 
precaution  to  have  the  farmers  along 
the  river  on  the  lookout,  and  thus  had 
learned  its  whereabouts  as  soon  as  it 
was  discovered.  But  never  a  boastful 

[27] 


word  from  Sam;  the  pulpit  had  been 
recovered  —  his  duty  had  been  done  — 
and  if  he  felt  any  personal  elation  he 
was  canny  enough  to  keep  it  to  himself. 
Not  only  was  Sam  the  detective 
force;  he  was  also  the  judge, — judex 
verissimus,  sanctissimus,  et  justissimus 
plurimarum  rerum.  O  fortunate  com- 
monwealth, in  which  so  goodly  a  man 
became  judge  by  a  happy  natural  selec- 
tion, and  into  which  the  vexatious 
problem  of  the  recall  never  intruded 
itself!  Of  course  some  cases  were  so 
grave  that  the  judge  felt  it  necessary 
to  refer  them  to  the  Supreme  Court,  but 
all  ordinary  misdemeanors  were  not  so 
reported.  These  inferior  court  cases 
were  handled  quietly  and  with  tact, 
and  the  judge  enjoyed  the  confidence 
of  the  entire  community.  The  Fac- 
ulty, for  their  part,  were  glad  to  be 
relieved  from  the  annoyance  of  petty 
discipline,  and,  for  our  part,  we  were 
glad  to  reduce  to  a  minimum  the 
chances  for  the  miscarriage  of  justice. 
Sam's  authority,  to  be  sure,  rested  only 

[28] 


upon  tolerance  and  public  opinion,  but 
it  was  a  public  opinion  enlightened  and 
crystalized. 

Sam  was  qualified  for  this  office  by 
his  good  sense,  his  resourcefulness,  and 
his  secretiveness.  Sam's  secretiveness ! 
Somewhere  in  his  brain  must  have  been 
whole  alcoves  of  dust-covered  secrets, 
but  the  walls  were  adamantine,  the 
keeper  alone  held  a  key,  —  and  he 
alone  entered.  I  think  he  enjoyed  wan- 
dering through  these  alcoves,  dusting 
off  an  occasional  treasure,  and  taking 
a  bit  of  a  look  at  it,  but  that  is  pure 
conjecture. 

If  the  college  held  the  first  place  in 
Sam's  affection,  and  the  church  the 
second,  the  Good  Templars  clearly  held 
the  third.  For  nearly  forty  years  Sam 
was  an  enthusiastic  worker  in  this 
temperance  order.  Occasionally  he 
would  be  elected  a  delegate  to  some  con- 
vention, and  then  the  alumni  would 
raise  a  fund  to  equip  him  and  to  pay 
his  traveling  expenses.  These  trips 
were  epochs  in  Sam's  life.  At  one  time 


he  was  thus  enabled  to  revisit  the  scenes 
of  his  boyhood.  But  the  great  trip  was 
in  1902,  when  he  was  sent  to  Sweden 
to  the  International  Convention.  It 
was  the  proudest  day  of  Sam's  life 
when  he  bore  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
through  the  streets  of  Stockholm.  On 
his  return,  every  one  was  eager  to  hear 
of  Sam's  trip,  and  so  he  delivered  a 
"  lecture,"  heralded  by  posters  and 
dodgers,  by  your  leave,  in  the  Baptist 
Church.  It  was  a  "  capacity  house," 
and  Sam  gave  everybody  his  money's 
worth,  both  in  subject-matter  and  in 
length  of  program.  None  of  your  par- 
simonious, forty-five  minute  lectures 
for  Sam!  Indeed,  if  the  demands  of 
the  college  had  not  necessitated  its 
termination,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  lec- 
ture ever  would  have  had  a  close. 
Though  I  could  not  hear  the  lecture,  I 
was  in  Waterville  the  following  sum- 
mer. I  found  Sam  working  under  the 
willows  along  by  the  river,  and  we  sat 
down  on  a  log,  hip  to  haunch,  and  had 
it  out.  Sam,  it  seems,  was  one  of  six 

[80] 


delegates,  representing  six  different 
races,  presented  to  the  royal  family. 
"  Well,  Sam,"  I  asked,  "  did  you  have 
any  conversation  with  them?  "  "  Oh, 
yes,  sah;  I  talked  to  de  princess." 
"What  did  she  say  to  you,  Sam?" 
"  She  say  to  me,  *  Sam,  how  ole  be 
you?  '  "  "  And  you  replied?  "  "  Oh, 
dat's  for  yoh  to  fine  out,  princess ;  how 
ole  be  yoh?  "  And  we  both  laughed 
until  we  cried  about  it,  though  for  quite 
different  reasons. 

Though  Sam  was  too  self -sustained  to 
exact  commendation  or  attention,  he 
was  nevertheless  transported  with  hap- 
piness when  praise  was  volunteered. 
Commencement,  with  its  home-coming 
of  the  old  boys,  filled  his  cup  of  happi- 
ness to  overflowing  with  this  pleasant 
wine.  I  recall  that  at  one  of  the 
Commencements  in  the  late  nineties,  a 
speaker  at  the  alumni  dinner  proposed 
a  toast  to  Sam  and  placed  upon  the 
coat  of  the  old  negro,  who  was  led  in, 
limp  with  giggling  expectancy,  by  a 
troop  of  the  younger  men,  an  enormous 

[31] 


metal  badge,  and  announced  that  the 
thirty-third  degree  was  thereby  con- 
ferred. Neither  Sam  nor  any  one  else 
asked  so  impertinent  a  question  as 
"the  thirty-third  degree  of  what?" 
That  was  a  thing  to  be  felt,  not  to  be 
impaired  by  definition.  There  was 
only  one  thirty-third  degree  that  Sam 
could  take  —  just  the  thirty-third  de- 
gree of  Samhood.  Needless  to  say, 
this  badge  became  a  cherished  posses- 
sion and  was  worn  on  all  state 
occasions. 

Sam's  home  was  always  a  favorite 
resort  with  the  students,  for  Maria,  — 
"  Mother  Osborne,"  as  the  boys  of 
later  years  called  her,  —  shared  in  her 
husband's  affection  for  the  college  and 
idolized  the  boys.  She  had  learned  the 
lessons  of  hospitality  at  the  fountain 
head,  and  she  did  credit  to  her  Southern 
training.  Maria's  shelves  were  laden 
with  good  things  to  the  remotest  corner 
of  pantry  and  cellar.  Maria  was  the 
very  duchess  of  doughnuts  and  princess 
of  pies,  and  we  hungry  boys  were  always 

[32] 


glad  to  pay  homage.  Thanksgiving 
and  Christmas  were  particular  occa- 
sions, when  Sam  and  Maria  threw  out 
the  net  of  hospitality  and  gathered  in 
every  homesick  boy,  and  only  released 
him  after  he  had  acknowledged  Maria's 
absolute  supremacy  in  every  depart- 
ment of  culinary  achievement. 

It  was  indeed  a  household  to  visit. 
Sam  and  Maria  had  raised  a  large 
family  of  affectionate,  interesting  chil- 
dren, and  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
them  before  their  cheerful  fire  of  an 
evening,  with  their  happy  children 
grouped  about  them.  Many  an  even- 
ing did  we  spend  there,  listening  to 
Sam's  stories  of  his  boyhood,  or  to 
reminiscences  of  the  college  days  of 
men  now  grown  gray  and  famous. 

So  essentially  was  Sam's  life  linked 
with  the  life  of  the  college,  so  little  was 
his  buoyant  spirit  affected  by  the  pass- 
ing years,  so  disarming  was  his  opti- 
mism, that  even  when  he  was  past 
seventy,  it  was  easy  to  think  that  many 
years  of  service  lay  before  him.  ^ 

[33] 


Therefore  the  statement  in  the  pro- 
visional Commencement  announce- 
ments of  1903  that  Sam  was  breaking 
came  as  a  shock  to  the  alumni.  When 
Sam  learned  in  the  spring  of  that  year 
that  he  had  but  a  short  time  to  live,  his 
one  great  desire  was  to  last  until  after 
Commencement,  in  order  that  he  might 
see  as  many  of  his  old  friends  as  pos- 
sible. His  strength  of  will  doubtless 
had  much  to  do  with  gratifying  this 
desire,  and  he  lingered  until  the  first 
of  July.  His  last  days  beautifully 
crowned  his  life.  After  the  seniors* 
last  chapel  exercise,  the  gowned  gradu- 
ates marched  over  to  Sam's  house  and 
shook  hands  with  the  dying  janitor. 
He  was  too  weak  for  many  words,  but 
a  characteristic  smile  of  appreciation 
lit  up  the  face  of  the  old  man  as  he 
shook  each  hand  feebly  and  said, 
"Good-by,  boys,"  and  "  Good-by, 
girls."  It  was  a  very  touching  scene. 
After  it  was  all  over,  the  large-hearted 
man  broke  down  in  tears. 

A£  many  of  the  alumni  as  possible 

[34] 


came  back  to  Commencement,  and 
Sam  was  able  to  see  most  of  them.  A 
constant  procession  of  alumni  were 
going  to  and  from  Sam's  house.  If  any 
question  of  the  real  love  which  the  boys 
felt  for  him  had  ever  existed  in  Sam's 
mind  before  that  time,  those  Com- 
mencement days  must  have  dispelled  it. 
There  were  few  unmoistened  eyes  when 
the  President,  in  the  course  of  the 
Baccalaureate  sermon,  said  of  the  old 
janitor:  "  Our  college  has  witnessed 
for  many  years  the  faithful  service  of 
our  head  janitor,  whom  all  have  re- 
spected and  loved;  respected  for  his 
faithfulness  and  devotion  to  the  inter- 
ests of  the  college;  loved,  because  of 
his  gentle,  warm,  and  confiding  nature, 
because  he  has  cared  for  the  sick, 
chidden  the  erring,  and  encouraged  all 
by  his  simple,  pure,  and  unaffected 
Christian  life." 

At  the  bedside  of  the  dying  man  were 
all  of  the  members  of  his  family,  the 
President  of  the  college,  and  the  pastor 
of  the  Baptist  church.  Early  in  the 

[85] 


day  he  expressed  some  anxiety  that  his 
son  might  not  reach  home  for  a  parting 
word,  and,  on  his  arrival  a  few  hours 
before  his  father's  death,  Sam  talked 
with  him  about  caring  for  his  mother. 
To  the  last  moment  Sam  showed  his 
usual  thoughtfulness  for  the  comfort  of 
others,  and  urged  the  friends  about  him 
to  take  rest  and  refreshment.  His  last 
words  were  "  Good  night." 

One  day  when  Sam  was  discussing  a 
certain  piece  of  work  which  needed  to 
be  done  at  the  house,  and  told  his  wife 
that  he  must  do  such-and-such  a  thing 
at  the  college  first,  Maria,  half  play- 
fully and  half  impatiently,  replied,  "  I 
suppose  if  you  was  ded,  you'd  hev  to 
go  to  de  college  fuhst."  It  was  another 
instance  of  the  truth  being  spoken  in 
jest,  for  the  funeral  exercises  were  ap- 
propriately held  in  the  college  chapel. 
The  mass  of  floral  tributes  from  friends 
far  and  near  were  a  final  expression  of 
the  love  which  all  who  had  known  him 
felt  for  Sam.  None  was  more  signifi- 
cant than  the  heart  of  red  and  white 

[36] 


roses  given  by  the  Maine  Central  Rail- 
road, so  very  personal  had  Sam  seemed 
to  a  supposedly  impersonal  corpora- 
tion. Among  the  pall  bearers  was  the 
President  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  of 
the  college. 

It  was  fitting  that  Sam  should  be  laid 
to  rest  just  as  the  sun  was  setting  at 
the  end  of  a  summer  day. 

Dear  old  Sam,  I  doubt  not  that  if 
any  of  the  Colby  boys  are  worthy  of 
your  care,  you  are  looking  after  them 
to-night. 


[37] 


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